“I hope one calls today!” My husband, Jay, brightened. He had been slouched down in his seat, exhausted from a big day at work. But the mere thought of harassing some hapless telemarketer perked him right up. I hated to disappoint him, but I had to tell him that telemarketers aren’t allowed to call that late. His face immediately fell.
The day has finally come. You asked me to tell you about the Netherlands and that is exactly what I am going to do. I promise you that you will find here a no-holds-barred exposé on Dutch culture.
First, though, a disclaimer is in order.
Future posts might make you believe that I hate the Netherlands and all the people in it. That is simply not true.
Just to clarify my opinion about the Netherlands, today I’m going to discuss some of the reasons Dutchies rock.
I narrowed my eyes. Wait a minute. I’ve heard the sales pitch about the high-tech scan before. I’m not falling for that baloney again.
“Will it have lasers?” I asked. The question just slipped out.
“No, there will be no lasers involved,” he said.
“Will there be any fire and brimstone in the immediate area of the high-tech scan?”
“I love America. You can have whatever you want, whenever you want and however you want. You just pay extra money.”
My husband’s words warmed my cold little capitalist American heart. I knew from experience that in his country, money definitely doesn’t talk.
One day, after several months in the Netherlands, I was particularly homesick. With no Walmart, no Starbucks and no 24-hour anything for miles, I had only one option for a taste of home: McDonald’s. Looking forward to some nuggets and fries, I hopped on my bike and burned rubber to all-American familiarity.
Wow, it was busy. Fortunately, one thing Dutch people do not tolerate is waiting in line, so the cashiers were knocking out orders. Soon it was my turn.
I don’t know why people are just now realizing that Abercrombie is run by a Certified Giant Douche. How many times has Abercrombie been caught with their pants down now? They’ve made non-white employees hide away out of sight in their stores…that is, only if they couldn’t avoid hiring them in the first place. Right after that media mayday, I went to a job fair where Abercrombie’s table had two super hot black twins as models. Never mind that they’d never hired non-white “models” before. The company’s since been trying to establish that it’s not really run by a racist Turd Sandwich.
On learning that tornadoes were cutting a path across Oklahoma, headed straight for my mom’s house in Tulsa, I felt a strong compulsion to break open a cake mix. You see, my mother taught me well: in the event of an emergency, one must always have cake on hand. (Preferably in hand.) Granted, at 2,000 miles from Tulsa, this was not my emergency. But in a show of support for my fellow Oklahomans, I rose up and went to Walmart.
The dental assistants at Chez Satan insisted that I remain in the dental chair while waiting for the dentist on duty. They had to remind me a few times that I was absolutely not allowed to huddle in the corner next to the high-tech scan. “That dream is over,” they said. “The high-tech scan is never going to have lasers.”
Now my biggest problem sat front and center: the terrible pain in my mouth courtesy of Drama Tooth. A massive lump had deformed the roof of my mouth. Somehow, Drama Tooth had wrangled the nerve in my jaw. On both sides of my head. For both top and bottom jaws. The pain was excruciating.
Let me tell you more about my adventures with what has since been dubbed “Drama Tooth”.
The day after Dr. Obvious ordered a high-tech scan for Drama Tooth, I showed up 30 minutes early at the office of the scan machine. I figured one of two scenarios would require my being early for once in my life:
• This office would be dark enough for a naked mole rat, just like the first office, so I’d need the extra time to fumble around in the dark to find the door, or
• I’d get to sneak a peak at the high-tech scan machine early.
Aspartame, that is. I don’t know about you, but I avoid putting something in my mouth if it sounds or tastes like ass. That’s two counts against aspartame, the artificial sweetener most famous for its starring role in NutraSweet: Mad Cow for Humans.
We’re all big kids, right? We can make our own decisions. If you decide that aspartame is safe and then build a fort in your living room out of your empty Diet Coke boxes, fine. You have the right to remain crazy. You’ve been warned NutraSweet/aspartame might scramble your brain. And no one lied to you about whether it was actually in your Diet Coke.
Despite four trips to an endodontist for just one root canal, the infection surrounding my tooth was exploding. Not only did it feel like a miniature devil had taken up permanent residence in the roof of my mouth, the infection made me incredibly weak.
Worst of all, though, was that it was making me stupid. I suppose I was still dragging my feet and hoping the whole thing would magically resolve on its own when I had difficulty lifting a spoon to eat soup. But when I realized I was stupid, I panicked…I had to get this fixed!